and the nightmare was me
by Lunalelle
Summary: I'll get inside your mind where not even you can escape me. An Anastasia fic that could be seen as crack if you like.


**Title:** and the nightmare was me

**Author:** Lunalelle

**Fandom:** _Anastasia_

**Rating:** R

**Pairing:** Anastasia (Anya)/Rasputin

**Word count:** 693 words

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**Summary:** _I'll get inside your mind where not even you can escape me._

**Notes:** I wrote this for Lady Kareth, so you can blame her. And what's even sadder is that I had more than one idea for this.

_I'll get inside your mind where not even you can escape me._

She stopped where she stood, bringing her hand to her head to steady herself against the wave of lightheadedness. It was a mere few days since the incident on the ship, and she was almost afraid to go to sleep again. She did not tell Vlad – why would she bother with Dimitri? _a duchess would sleep at exactly ten at night… oh whatever _- because he would worry for her and fuss, and she would not have a moment's peace. Even if peace could not come from her silence, something told her to keep quiet. Disquiet, it might be, intimate and nervous and whisperingly thrilling.

Pooka nudged her ankle, and she smiled absentmindedly as Dimitri - _maybe we should stop… we have stopped_ - led her to a chair. He tried, poor fool, and times like this, he succeeded. Still, she leaned her head against the dirty wall and closed her eyes, still dizzy. The bus would not come for hours, and after nights of forcing herself to stay awake, the sun made no difference but warmth on her cold cheeks. She sank beneath, practically pulled, and the spinning stopped.

_Anastasia._

She whirled around in air, and the stone flags of a bridge appeared under her feet. There was a glint of eyes and shadows lighter than darkness.

"Who's there?"

_Anastasia. You, a blossoming flower, and me, a rotting corpse._

"Your face…" She could not see it.

_I can see you, Anastasia. You come ever closer to me, no matter where you run._

Fingers skittered over the rags on her back, and she smelled dry, stale breath curling around her face. His beard draped over her shoulder, and he purred his amusement.

_Run, little princess, you can't run in your own mind._

"Who are…?" But that was the wrong question, and his chin rested against her collarbone. There was a rush of air as he breathed her in – she felt like he drank life, and she struggled. His hand came off, not from her arm but from his wrist, and she screamed. He disappeared as the foundation of the bridge cracked, fell; the black river looked deceptively calm, and she clung to the angled stone.

He slammed her against the bridge like a sorcerer, floating in the air, and she thought she could see him. Her eyes were already closed, so they could only be open here, staring into those that caught her with manic, yellow, intensity. She did try and run – she almost felt the uncomfortable chair and the smell of mildew on the wall of the building behind her, the smell of horse hung on the road. But she coughed as he laughed in her mouth, and his beard gathered between her legs. So familiar…

"Who am I?"

The reply was barely a whisper over the slither of his tongue.

_My Anastasia._

She slammed against the vertical break of the bridge again, registering force without pain, and she writhed beneath him with his hands all over her – how many hands did he have? – clenching and ripping. There was pressure _underneath_ her clothes that was not fingers, although he held it in his hand. He thrust within her, and she did not even think to scream. His voice was all around her - _Anastasia Anastasia Anastasia my Anastasia_ - giving her, telling her who she was. Her breath came in short gasps as he claimed her by name, rough and rotting and honest. She whimpered in revelation, and the world fell away but for his mouth on her neck and the sigh

_what goes around comes around and around and around_

and around. She was dizzy again, but awake. Dimitri shook her shoulder again. She still was not sure whether she should hit him while under the guise of sleeping or cling to his waking form to ground her from the nightmare of her own vulnerable mind.

"The bus is here, Anya," he said, stepping back.

"I'm waiting for our next catastrophe with bated breath," she mumbled, but she scooped up Pooka and let Vlad help her onto the bench.


End file.
